


Good Intentions

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [49]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anders is Alive and Well, Blue Hawke, Gen, Jaws of Hakkon, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"That’s what happens when you try to change things. Things change. You can’t always control how."</i>
</p><p>Short scenes from Hawke's time with the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

A steady stream of traffic flowed over the Frostback Mountains to Skyhold, winding through what had been isolated villages just a matter of weeks ago and quickly transforming them into major trading posts, whether the locals liked it or not. Hawke noticed a few wary glances at the staff over his shoulder, but the townspeople didn’t stare; he was just another refugee passing through, wrapped in heavy furs against the cold, tired and bedraggled and anonymous. Another of the stragglers coming out of hiding, hoping to join Fiona’s people in the relative safety of the Inquisition, escaping the war at last—or else going to war in the name of the Inquisition. He wasn’t sure which story was prevailing at the moment. He’d heard both from the apostates he’d met along the road.

A pair of gilded Orlesian carriages were parked at the last village before Skyhold, with chickens and goats wandering around their wheels. Their drivers sat in the tavern and waited for their masters to return, or for the Inquisition’s forces to finish widening the narrow pass through the mountains, whichever came first; and a harried-looking serving girl told Hawke there were no rooms to be had. He spent the night in his tent again, wishing he could remember the protective glyphs that Anders had taught him once, years ago, guiding the movement of his hands. But he couldn’t get all the lines right, all the fiddly details that each had some underlying meaning that they taught in the Circles but which he’d just tried to copy without really understanding what each part was for, like writing out an alphabet he couldn't read. Anders was always the one to put up the wards when they traveled.

Hawke had threatened to tie Anders down if he had to, to stop him from following Hawke to Skyhold.

 _Promises, promises,_ Anders had teased.

For all the disasters Hawke had dragged Anders into—the Deep Roads, the Fade, all those times when Anders had refused to stand by and watch Hawke walk into danger without him, not when he could help in a way no one else could—Corypheus was different. There was no way he was letting that thing within a hundred leagues of Anders again. If it hadn’t been his own fault that creature was free in the first place, he’d have been on a ship with Anders right now, heading as far north as north went. As it was, he twirled a black feather between his fingers and told himself they’d be seeing each other again just as soon as this was over.

Assuming the Inquisitor didn’t decide to clap him in irons.

As he came over the final rise in the road and caught sight of Skyhold in the distance, the wind whipped at his hair, grown long over the years as a fugitive. The fortress was an impressive sight, but not as impressive as the number of people heading for its gates—soldiers and merchants, pilgrims and refugees displaced by the war. For a moment, he was half convinced he’d walk through that gate and find himself back in the Gallows, with a templar turning away refugees at the door. He supposed that would make mages the new Blight, driving people from their homes.

But while the road to Skyhold was full of refugees who’d lost everything to the revolution he’d helped start, they were walking side by side with the mages themselves, who were talking like Skyhold was to become their new base of operations. And though he’d expected to see fighting break out at any moment, the journey had been fairly peaceful.

That was enough of a minor miracle that he could almost believe in this Herald of Andraste business.

* * *

There were no templars to turn him away at the door this time. In fact, the entrance was nearly deserted save for a few bored and distracted soldiers who barely glanced at him as they nodded him through. As he made his way through the courtyard, he soon found the reason why.

The people of Skyhold were gathered around a raised platform where a man was being led by soldiers in Inquisition armor. The banners behind them snapped in the wind. A third soldier read aloud from a scroll, her voice ringing out clearly over the crowd.

“Gereon Alexius, for the crimes of apostasy, attempted enslavement, and attempted assassination, you have been condemned to death by beheading, this sentence to be carried out by the Inquisitor’s own hand. May the Maker have mercy upon you.”

The crowd’s murmur became a roar—a pleased roar, as best as Hawke could tell. And the most enthusiastic among them were wearing mage robes, their fists raised in the air.

He thought he recognized a few of the faces in that crowd, people he’d met in passing over these past few years of traveling between the Circles, helping them rise up. He shifted his shoulders, feeling the weight of his hood hanging low over his face, and still felt too exposed, far too exposed without Anders to watch his back.

So this was the Tevinter slaver who’d tried to scoop up Fiona’s people, the man who’d failed where the Inquisition had succeeded. And it sounded like apostasy was still a crime in the Inquisition’s eyes, even with their offer to shelter the rebel mages. He wondered how they were defining _apostate_ these days. He hadn’t failed to notice the watchful eyes of men whose short-cropped hair and rigid posture screamed _templar,_ despite the lack of Chantry uniforms.

First the Divine’s Conclave, then Tevinter, now the Inquisition; the mages were so tired of fighting, they’d been ready to sell themselves to anyone who promised to put an end to it. _What a mess._

He was as eager for peace as anyone, but just ending the open conflict wasn’t enough, not if they didn’t handle it carefully. The years of watching Elthina try to keep a lid on the powder keg that was Kirkwall had been proof enough of that for him. She may have kept the mages and templars from rioting in the streets, but what had been going on in the Gallows couldn’t be called _peace_ by any stretch of the imagination. If they were just trading the Circles for a new cage, then everything Anders had done, everything Fiona and her people had fought for, all the deaths of these past years would be meaningless.

The shouting dropped off as the Inquisitor climbed the steps of the platform, until there was only the soft, constant sound of a Chantry mother’s prayers from somewhere in the crowd, her rhythmic drone rising and falling. And Hawke shifted forward, trying to get a better look at the man that Varric claimed was their best chance of putting an end to the bloodshed.

The former Circle mage who’d become the leader of the Inquisition. He looked too young for it. From the stories they’d heard, Anders had been convinced that Trevelyan was a Chantry puppet, a ploy to round up the rebels and bring them to heel; but Varric seemed to genuinely believe there was something worth supporting here.

Hawke was withholding judgment until he had a chance to see more of this Herald for himself. He was far too familiar with the way a person’s legend could become twisted in the telling.

Puppet or savior, Trevelyan didn’t flinch as he raised the sword. It was quick, and as clean as these things ever were.


	2. Monster or Hero

“I’d like to know more about Anders,” Trevelyan said, standing beside Hawke on the ramparts, away from the curious eyes and ears of the Inquisition. “Which is he really? Monster or hero?”

“Don’t kill the Herald, Hawke,” Varric broke in quickly. “We kind of need him.”

Hawke shot Varric a look. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before—even from people who should know better. Anders was the most wanted man in Thedas. Hawke couldn’t exactly go around punching out everyone who insulted Anders’ honor; there weren’t enough hours in the day.

Much as he might like to.

Or to strike the word _monster_ from the language entirely, that would work too.

But Trevelyan honestly seemed to have meant no offense by it; he was looking back and forth between them, raising an eyebrow.

Hawke shook his head. “You tell me, Inquisitor.” He nodded in the direction of the courtyard, where Trevelyan had executed Alexius just hours ago. “What happened down there, did that make you feel like a hero?”

Trevelyan’s lips thinned. Before he could speak, Hawke held up a hand in a pacifying gesture. “I’m not accusing you. I figure it was justified. But I'm saying you’re the embodiment of justice for your people, and that’s not an easy thing to be, this side of the Veil.”

“Nor compassion, neither,” Trevelyan said, his gaze sliding to the left. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.

Hawke shrugged. “Sure. Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.” He tilted his head toward the site of the execution again. “But it’s not exactly the sort of thing you want to hear glorified in song.”

In Kirkwall, he’d seen one Circle mage after another driven into a corner and lashing out. Caught between the quiet, accepted half-deaths of the Tranquil and the abuses of the Gallows, so much worse than he'd imagined from his father's stories; or else the life of an escaped apostate, hiding in the sewers, just waiting for the day the templars with their phylacteries tracked them down and dragged them back. No wonder so many buckled under that pressure and destroyed themselves, turned themselves into very literal monsters; if there was no way out, at least the demons could take a few of their tormentors down with them.

It wasn’t much of a choice.

Anders had risked everything to give them the hope of a different choice. He’d been driven into a corner, just as much as the rest of the Circle mages; and he’d deliberately set out to sacrifice himself in order to give the rest of them a way out. And it had worked.

He’d been so surprised when Hawke offered _him_ a way out, it still broke Hawke’s heart to think of it.

“Anders is a hero,” Hawke said feelingly, with the image of a horrific pillar of light and the ruins of the chantry vivid in his mind. “But he wouldn’t thank me for saying that.”


	3. Ten Years, A Hundred Years

Hawke was half surprised to walk away from his meeting with the Inquisitor still a free man. Not that he thought Varric would lead him into a trap; but it had been a long time since he’d been comfortable answering to his own name. He almost expected templars to materialize at the sound of it.

“We could see about getting you an official pardon,” Varric said. He mimicked Trevelyan, raising a beneficent hand and intoning, “In the name of Andraste, you are forgiven for having the shittiest taste in men in Thedas.”

Hawke leaned on the wall overlooking Skyhold’s garden, where sounds of the Chant were rising as the evening closed in. In the absence of a Divine, the Inquisition was becoming the de facto power in much of the south; the Inquisitor’s pardon would carry a lot of weight. All jokes aside, it wasn’t a bad idea. “Think you could swing a pardon for Anders, too?”

Varric’s smile slid sideways, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. “That, uh. That’d be rough.”

He’d expected as much. “Then I’m not interested.”

He might have little control over his own legend, but damned if he was going to let people start painting him as some repentant sinner, returning to the fold after Anders had led him astray.

Varric heaved a frustrated sigh and muttered something under his breath. After a moment, he added, “You know, the Herald might actually go for it, if it were just up to him. He’s a big fan of The Tale of the Champion.”

“You’re kidding.”

Varric’s grin widened, and Hawke groaned. Was there anyone who _hadn’t_ read that thing?

He had to admit, Varric had done him a favor. The book was a pack of lies, but anyone looking for the bearded, wisecracking rogue of The Tale of the Champion wouldn’t recognize the fugitive actually on the run. Back in Kirkwall, Varric’s tall tales had been a way to drum up business; now they were doing a fine job of deflecting attention onto the legend and away from the real man.

But he supposed Anders’ legend had gotten too big for even Varric to put a positive spin on now. Some of the mages might paint Anders as a hero; but even if Trevelyan was inclined to pardon Anders, a lot of the Inquisition’s influence came from their efforts to end the war. Anders had become a symbol of the war itself. Pardoning him would cause an outcry among the Inquisition’s followers.

Not to mention their commander. Hawke wondered if Cullen had known the templars who’d been in the chantry that night.

And he could only imagine what their diplomat or spymaster could have done for the Inquisition’s growing influence, their reputation as the solution to the war, if they’d gotten their hands on Anders’ location and brought him in for judgment.

“Thank you,” he said out loud. “For not giving away where we were. It couldn’t have been easy.”

Varric grimaced. “Yeah, well. I don’t want to see anyone lose their heads. Don’t go reading too much into that.” He hunched deeper into his leather coat and turned away, uncomfortable. After a long moment, he asked, “You really still believe in all this, huh? Blondie’s war? You couldn’t just take the pardon, try to go back to how things were?”

 _Blondie’s war_ was overstating it—but that was the way the story was being told.

And outside of stories, people could never go back to being who they used to be. He couldn’t go back to being the Champion, no more than the Champion could have gone back to being the Lowtown smuggler, or the Lothering farmboy, or the child he’d been before he realized he had magic. People changed. Even eternal spirits of justice changed. The Hanged Man’s roof had fallen in, and the world had moved on.

“No, huh?” Varric said, watching his expression. He sighed, leaning back against the wall.

Below them, two people in mage robes were meandering through the garden, hand in hand.

In general, the mages Hawke had seen in Skyhold had been keeping to themselves, mostly sticking to a crumbling tower that had been designated for their use, to be repaired properly as soon as the Inquisition could spare the materials. Many of them looked at loose ends, as if they were waiting for someone to tell them what to do, uncertain how to move without being granted permission.

He’d seen that same hesitancy among a lot of the rebel mages as the Circles rose up; people who’d been trained only for obedience their whole lives, suddenly trying to figure out how to survive on their own, make decisions for themselves for the first time. Most of them had found new leaders to follow, leaders like Fiona and Adrian. But as part of the Inquisition, the mages were back to trying to figure out just how much freedom they had, what the rules were, who they should be looking to for guidance.

Outside of their designated tower, many of the mages looked most at home around the garden, helping with the herbs or drifting in and out of the small chapel. The garden itself was filled with statues of Andraste and rang with the sound of prayers—pilgrims newly arrived to Skyhold celebrating the end of their pilgrimage, and mages praising Andraste for granting one of their own her blessing, hoping that one chosen mage stood for all of them.

The mage who’d caught his attention was a young elf wearing dark feathered pauldrons, his hair tied back. He was with a young woman in brilliantly colored Circle robes, and she gripped his hands and, steppping backwards, drew him after her into the gazebo, out of sight.

_Ten years, a hundred years from now, someone like me will love someone like you, and there will be no templars to tear them apart._

Even if it were possible to turn back time and go back to the way things had been, he’d make the same choices all over again, just the same.


	4. Secrets and Justifications

Caer Bronach was unrecognizable from the bandit hideout it had been just days ago. The fortress bustled with Inquisition agents repairing the walls, painting the symbol of the Inquisition across the stones, a giant eye looking down on them. Even now, sitting at a desk in a quiet room, writing out a letter to Anders, Hawke could hear the clanging of metal and the chatter of agents on the other side of the door.

The people of Crestwood, who'd been an understandably suspicious bunch peering at him from behind locked doors when he’d first passed through, had enthusiastically welcomed the fortress’s new residents. When Hawke had arrived at Caer Bronach after meeting with Stroud, there’d been carts of food clogging the door, deals for future supplies being struck. With Crestwood's mayor fled and no help coming from Denerim, the Inquisition had slid easily into the power void here, setting out to restore law and order as if they were the lords of the land. If this was how they operated everywhere, no wonder they’d gained so much influence in so little time. Hawke wished the mages could have done half as much for themselves; they’d had to struggle for every inch of ground gained, as likely to be run off by the local lords as by the templars. But where the Inquisitor walked, the land was transformed.

He was trying to put it all down in words for Anders, trying to describe the unreal feeling of standing by the shore of a lake, watching a glow curl off the surface of the water and light up the night; and then standing in a muddy, exposed lakebed by the light of day, as if it had been a dream. Afterward, there’d been a sense of pressure in the air around the Inquisitor, the same pressure of the Fade that rippled around Anders all the time, so faint that Hawke might not have noticed if he hadn’t grown sensitive to it over their years together. Like the air before a storm.

How did he keep getting involved with these larger-than-life figures?

All he’d ever tried to do was look after his family, and make sure people like him and Anders could be safe. But then, he supposed that was what his father had been doing too, when he’d let the Wardens drive him to blood magic. Trying to protect his own, and damn the consequences.

Hawke buried his head in his hands, leaning against the desk.

Which was how Varric found him when he walked in. “Letter going well, I take it?”

Hawke scrubbed his hands over his face. “Oh, fine. ‘Don’t worry, love, you’re not really dying—probably—it’s just the ancient darkspawn I unleashed getting into your head again, nothing to worry about! Please ignore any sudden urges you may have to go running off to the Deep Roads without me.’”

Stroud should have told him about this sooner. Damn Warden secrecy. The Warden taint ran through the blood of all the family he had left, and the order was so closemouthed about everything; how many more oath-bound secrets were waiting to ambush him?

With any luck, the false Calling would never reach Anders in Llomerryn, and he'd never be involved in this blood ritual mess. But Hawke should be there with him.

“Hey, Blondie’s a survivor. He’s made it through everything else; a little thing like this won’t take him down,” Varric said. As attempts at being comforting went, it was pretty transparent, but Hawke appreciated the effort.

There was no name on Anders’ letter; he’d be enclosing it with a similar letter for Carver, and his brother would send it onward to Anders’ current alias. Though that felt like flimsy protection. The longer Hawke spent listening to the Inquisition agents in this keep, the more he was convinced that their spymaster could have found him and Anders at any time, if she’d cared to.

He wasn’t sure whether that meant she was trustworthy or terrifying. Possibly both. Leliana had certainly come a long way since Lothering - but then, so had he.

Where Skyhold had been the public face of the Inquisition, full of merchants and dignitaries and the faithful, Caer Bronach was filled with agents talking about codes and ciphers, about the lives and deaths of lords, trading in secrets. Listening to the casual, businesslike way they discussed the fates of nations, he felt like he was truly watching a war unfold in a way that he’d never felt among the rebel mages, even with Adrian’s group.

He’d met Adrian not long after the vote for independence. She’d led a small group north into the Blasted Hills on the border of the Anderfels, drawing the bulk of the templars’ forces after them, buying Fiona and the others a chance to escape to the south. Hawke and Anders had found her group holed up in the ruins of an old Warden outpost, low on supplies and exhausted from leading the templars on this chase. People had started abandoning the fight, looking to find sanctuary among the Grey Wardens instead, or simply vanishing into the wilderness. She’d spread a map across the floor between them because there was no furniture left that hadn’t rotted away over the years, and with torchlight reflected in her eyes, they’d searched for a way to survive.

The mages hadn’t known how to be soldiers. Maybe they were weapons—the world certainly saw them that way. He felt that way himself as often as not, always trying to solve his problems through sheer blunt force. But the Circle mages had always been weapons wielded by somebody else. They studied history, not strategy. Establishing supply lines, building fortifications—they hadn't known where to begin.

The sounds of the Inquisition drifted up to him from the courtyard; the hammering of a shield being beaten into shape, the cawing of birds bearing messages for Skyhold, tracking the movement of nations and turning them to the Inquisition’s advantage.

He wondered if the Inquisition would send their mages to places like this, turn them into soldiers in a way the rebellion hadn’t.

He wondered if Fiona’s people would have joined the Inquisition at all, if it hadn’t been for Corypheus driving them to it.

Everywhere he looked, he saw the echoes of his father’s blood magic. Would there even be an Inquisition now, if he and Carver had just dealt with the Carta and gone home, and never set foot in Corypheus’s prison?

Watching the way Crestwood had embraced the Inquisition as their saviors, Hawke kept seeing Meredith declaring martial law after the Qunari attack, stepping into the position of command when nobody else had been willing or able. Kirkwall had been grateful at first, too. Even Aveline had been glad to have help putting the city back to rights, for once not complaining about the templars interfering with guard business. The Knight-Commander had been a good person to have around in a crisis, provided you weren't a mage.

But there always seemed to be another crisis, always some sacred duty driving her onward, always some justification to keep her in power.

The Herald of Andraste's sacred duty could cover a lot of things. And if Varric was right, and the Inquisition was trustworthy, and the Inquisitor only meant well—

Meredith had meant well. His father had meant well. He meant well, but he'd still been willing to watch the world go to war and call it worth the cost.

Hawke reached for the black feather that hung around his neck, twirling it between finger and thumb, before picking up his quill pen again and hoping that Anders was staying away, staying safe. He hoped the war had been worth the cost. But it all depended on this Inquisition now.


	5. The Avvar Mage

Sigrid Guldsdotten carried the same pressure in the air around her as Anders, as the Inquisitor just after closing a rift, and Hawke kept catching himself leaning closer as they talked, unthinkingly.

At first he’d assumed she was one of Varric’s tall tales. The idea that the Inquisition had recruited a possessed mage and then sent her on a tour of cultural exchange, of all things; that she’d been welcomed into Orlesian parlors, dined with scholars and high-ranking Circle mages and fascinated them all—how could any of that be real?

_Where were these people when we needed them?_

Where had these fascinated scholars been when Anders was crouching in the sewers, terrified of himself, trying to deal with it all on his own?

“What’s so strange about it?” she asked the first time he sought her out. “Aren’t you doing the same as them? Trying to learn something?”

“Yes, but—”

He kept thinking of how Anders’s shoulders shook underneath his hands, through the heavy layers of fabric and feathers; and how a mage Anders had tried to save had breathed, _What was that thing?_

He wondered if Sigrid glowed in those Orlesian parlors.

But then he watched one of the Inquisition’s mages approach her, the same elf with the feathered pauldrons that he’d noticed in the garden earlier. The kid was hesitant, but he wore a wide-eyed look of hope, and Hawke was pretty sure he’d worn that same expression himself the first few times he’d spoken with Anders. That was the look of a kid realizing that the threat of possession that had been hanging over his head his whole life didn’t have to be a death sentence after all.

Before they’d had to go on the run, Hawke had been trying to track down information that might shed more light on Anders’ situation, keeping an eye out for banned texts and chasing down tall tales out of Rivain, without much success. One of the good things to come out of being made Champion was that he finally got a chance to visit the Circle’s library without risking becoming a permanent resident, and that was something out of his childhood dreams—getting to see what Circle mages were taught, what it would be like to have someone other than just his father to learn from. Ten years earlier, he would have loved it. But as it was, there was only one line of research he was interested in. He’d spent a frustrating day poring over Chantry-approved books on spirits and the Fade, and found only endless warnings and dangers, endless reminders that possession was the reason they all had to be locked up.

But the mages were out of their cages now, and the Chantry’s influence was slipping, and both the mages and the rest of the world were desperate for reassurance that those cages weren’t needed.

And the Inquisitor had sent them Sigrid.

From what Hawke had seen, Trevelyan’s idea of protecting his fellow mages usually meant scooping them all up, taking them under the wing of the Inquisition. But the mages had spent the past thousand years under the protection of an army of the faithful, and that hadn’t worked out so well for them. Hawke wasn’t convinced another army of the faithful was the solution.

The prestige of a mage chosen by Andraste herself could become a curse if public opinion decided this Herald was a false prophet. Whatever else Trevelyan had tried to do for the mages, it could all be undone the moment the reins of power were in somebody else’s hands.

But changing the way the world saw possession—that was the best shot Hawke could think of for real, lasting freedom.

* * *

An army of the faithful looking to a mage for guidance seemed only natural to Sigrid; and when Hawke said that magic wasn’t religious in the lowlands, she stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Weren’t you part of the Chantry? All you lowland mages? Thought that was what this war of yours was all about.”

“Not me personally, but—” Hawke shook his head, dismissing the point. “The Chantry locks up mages, it doesn’t make them into prophets.”

She leaned back in her chair, slinging an arm over the back of the seat, and made a disgusted noise. There were twice as many empty glasses in front of her as in front of him; she’d been swilling that same vile-smelling dwarven ale that Anders liked, and Hawke was beginning to suspect that alcohol had as little effect on her as it did on Anders.

“You just turned things upside down, that’s all,” she said. “Fitting for a people whose god’s gone missing. Prophets or prisoners, when people need magic done, they still go to the Chantry for it, don’t they?”

“Because magic’s dangerous, not because it’s sacred.”

“And the Chantry’s in charge of locking up all the dangerous criminals and storing all the weapons, are they?”

This was really more Anders’ area. Hawke’s grasp of Chantry history or Andraste’s teachings was vague at best; he assumed he’d meet the Maker when he died, probably, and he didn’t put much thought into it beyond that. He had enough things to worry about on this side of the Veil. “Not that I agree with this, but the Chantry thinks controlling the mages is carrying out Andraste’s will.”

Sigrid raised her eyebrows. “Like I said. Religion. So obeying the command of your god, your mages go into seclusion, devote their lives to nothing but magic, and use it at the command of your priests. Try doing anything else, and they call you an apostate, a traitor to your god. But magic’s not religious?”

Well, when she put it that way. Though he still thought she had it a bit backward. It wasn’t as if he cast fireballs with prayer; and while there was certainly one spirit that Hawke wouldn’t mind worshiping, that would have to wait until he got back to Llomerryn.

But Sigrid leaned forward, warming to her subject. “This lowlander mess is just what happens when you’re abandoned by your god and you’re not willing to trust any of the gods left, won’t meet them on their terms—you’re like children without a teacher. But now you’ve finally found a mage who’s talking to the right god, the one you’re willing to listen to. Looks to me like your Herald’s just turning your religion right-side up again.”

* * *

“So you could perform the ritual and separate at any time, if you wanted,” Hawke said. “You just don’t want to.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Sigrid said dryly, sweeping her arms out to take in the spread of Skyhold below her perch on the ramparts, sitting cross-legged atop the wall. “Lucky me.”

“But it’s worth it?”

She shrugged. “Haven’t left yet, have I?”

It was hard not to be reminded of Merrill, trading in her home among her people for a mirror, saying it was worth the cost. He’d trusted that Merrill knew what she was doing; he’d no more try to talk her out of her work for her clan than he’d try to make Anders abandon the mages. But she’d spent so many days shut up indoors, alone with the mirror and the memories of the deaths it had brought with it.

Even so, the easy, open way Sigrid accepted her spirit was a blessed relief to listen to. And she didn’t seem to be pining for the company of the Avvar.

Some of the advice she had to offer didn’t translate to life outside of the Avvar holds, where possession was expected and accepted; there was no substitute for the support of her own people. Some of what she’d learned about living with a spirit was too difficult to put into terms that would make any sense to Hawke without experiencing it for himself.

And some of her advice had been things Hawke and Anders had eventually worked out for themselves, like the importance of fulfilling a spirit’s purpose—the difference between becoming a bridge between two worlds or trapped between two worlds, as Sigrid put it. Hawke wished they’d figured that one out sooner.

Not long after they’d fled Kirkwall, trekking through the Vimmark Mountains with templars on their heels, Hawke had been startled by the sound of Anders’ laughter; and it struck him then just how rarely he’d heard Anders laugh through all their years in Kirkwall. Anders needed to see justice done in the same way a mortal body needed food and rest; Justice had been surviving on starvation rations for years, and had finally started learning to live again.

And then there was the ritual the Avvar used to remove the spirit from the possessed.

It wasn’t the first such ritual Hawke had heard of, but it sounded infinitely safer than the Circle’s equivalent. And though there were complications—the Avvar ritual was rooted in their culture, their religion; it would have none of the same significance in the lowlands, and the Fade responded as much to expectations and associations as it did to the basic mechanics of the spell—still, it was a place to start, if Anders ever chose to look into it.

As good as it was to know the option existed, it was an unsettling thought.

“Where would your teacher go, if you did separate?” he asked Sigrid. “Could you still see him?”

She shrugged. “When I visit the Fade, yeah. I could find him. But it wouldn’t be the same— _we_ wouldn’t be the same.”

And Sigrid had chosen to exile herself rather than give that up.

He could sympathize.

The world kept changing, and people drifted into his life and drifted back out again. He’d had so many long, tired walks through the night with all his belongings on his back, they all started to blur together. Walking away from friends he’d trusted with his first fumbling attempts at magic; walking away from his father’s gravesite and toward his sister’s; walking out of Kirkwall for the last time, and watching one friend after another turn and walk in the other direction.

Except for one. Or two, in a sense.

Hawke had chosen to exile himself rather than give that up, too.


	6. Tranquility and Other Absolutes

“They’ve _always_ been able to reverse Tranquility.” The always-formal Trevelyan looked like a different person as he paced the ramparts, jaw clenched, talking with his hands more and more as he went on. For once, Hawke found it easy to remember that not too long ago, the Inquisitor had been just another rebel mage.

Hawke had been talking with Stroud when the Inquisitor had strode past. Trevelyan had hesitated, then turned back to Hawke and called him away for this odd, private conversation. The guards patrolling the wall gave them a wide berth as Trevelyan recounted the Seeker’s tale of the origins of Tranquility.

“As if the problem here was its role in the war—”

“The war?” That was the last thing on Hawke’s mind. “They’ve known how to reverse Tranquility right from the start, and we still don’t have a cure that actually works?”

After seeing the way Justice’s presence had transformed Karl, Tranquility had become something of a pet research project for Hawke. But although it was a much more acceptable subject than spirit possession, and reading material had been relatively easy to find—the Chantry was full of 'helpful' information on the many benefits of Tranquility and the supposed peace that it brought—there was only so much a lone, largely self-educated apostate could do. He and Anders had never tried to repeat that brief miracle, not without more to offer than false hope and a chance to relive bad memories.

At the time, he’d been thinking of Tranquility as a way that Anders’ situation with Justice could bring about real change for the mages, no drowning in blood required. Ironic that it wound up being what finally started the war. And when the information came out about Pharamond’s discoveries, the role spirits played in reversing Tranquility, there’d been a thrill in that; but by that point, the war left little time to think much beyond surviving the next day.

Yet the Seekers had this information at their fingertips all through the ages, and had done nothing with it.

“Exactly! Thank you!” Trevelyan spread his hands wide, animated. “They couldn’t abuse the Rite as a threat anymore if there was a cure. The only people who knew about this were the ones who had every reason to keep it from us. Who knows what else the Chantry has kept secret, how far they’ve set us back?”

A strange thing to hear from a man who had both Hands of the Divine at his side and a templar commanding his armies. But Hawke kept that thought to himself.

“The amount of things they censor coming out of Tevinter alone, I’d had no idea,” Trevelyan said. “But you didn’t grow up in a Circle, did you—have you heard the way the Tranquil talk? The things that people do to them while in that state—”

“I know. You don’t need to tell me.” It had been the same in the Gallows, straightforwardly reciting a litany of the crimes perpetrated against them to any stranger who’d stop to listen, even as the templars had been pushing to expand the use of the Rite. The templars hadn’t even bothered to keep them out of the public eye, as if they’d assumed there wasn’t enough left of them to ask for help. Or else they’d assumed no one would care.

Trevelyan gripped the wall of the ramparts as if to gouge holes in the stone, shaking his head. “I’m going to throw all the resources of the Inquisition at this. We’ll make this a workable cure. I just—I had to talk to a mage who doesn’t work for me or worship me, first. I knew you’d understand.”

“Any mage would.” There were few things that could be counted on to unite the mages, but Tranquility would do it.

As much as the Inquisition touted Trevelyan as a former rebel mage ending the war, he’d never really seemed like one of them. He might have made a point of welcoming them into the Inquisition’s ranks, but rounding up mages wasn’t exactly new behavior for the Chantry. It was reassuring to see the cracks in the role of the Herald of Andraste, to see him get angry—not that Hawke really wanted a man in charge of that many troops to be making decisions in anger.

But Trevelyan was looking away, out over the grounds below, where the Inquisition’s remaining Seeker was working out her own frustrations on a practice dummy. Hawke had met her briefly. Odd woman. Asked him to autograph a book with a giant hole through it.

“Everywhere I turn, there’s another dire warning,” Trevelyan said as he watched her. He tapped one finger against the stone wall, counting them off. “The Seekers, the Chantry, the Wardens—you try to change the world for the better, and it always goes wrong in the end. And everyone wants me to reassure them that the Inquisition will be different, but for all the warnings about unforeseen consequences, no one seems to have any solutions. What would you do in my position?”

“Thought you were meant to be guided by the will of Andraste.”

“So were the Seekers.” Trevelyan looked away from the practice dummies, out across the courtyard. “I hope I’m guided by Her. Or by compassion, failing that. But I’d like your advice as well, Champion.”

Guided by compassion—that was surprisingly romantic. For someone with so much influence, there were worse things to aspire to. “Wish I could help you there. _Champion_ was a dirty word by the time I got through with it.” Less so since Varric’s ridiculous book, but he wasn’t convinced that was an improvement.

But Trevelyan was giving him a strange look. “Not in the Circles, it wasn’t.”

That wasn’t true. There were conflicting versions of his story out there, but while some did paint both him and Anders as misunderstood heroes, most of the mages he’d met had been eager to condemn Anders, trying to distance themselves from his actions, unaware of just who they were speaking to. Their opinion of the Champion hadn't been any more flattering than that of non-mages, before Varric’s book. He was the accomplice who’d sheltered a murderer, or else an unwitting pawn. The apostate turned Champion, the public face of the cause of mage rights; in the end, he’d just proved to the world that apostates could never be trusted.

Which was fine. He’d known what he was getting into when he stayed with Anders; they weren’t going to launch a revolution through the power of Hawke’s spotless reputation. Still, if Trevelyan was looking for advice on how to lead, Hawke wasn’t exactly a sterling example.

“If I may say so, Champion, what you did changed things. Mages were never supposed to be in charge of armies.” Trevelyan looked up at the cloudless sky overhead. “We’re not even supposed to be standing out in the open like this. My whole life, I’ve always known that if someone fights back against the templars, the best they can hope for is to make themselves a martyr. They don’t get to survive. They don’t have friends, family, loved ones who help them. They don’t _win_.”

For a moment, he could see Anders sitting on that crate again, so shocked to realize he hadn’t been abandoned after all. “We haven’t won yet.”

“We will,” Trevelyan said with certainty. He folded his arms, looking back down at where the Seeker was still practicing. “I know you’re not a believer, but I’m thankful you’re working with us. Reminds me that nothing is set in stone.”


	7. Duels

It had been bound to happen sooner or later.

Hawke had tried to keep a low profile since arriving in Skyhold. Many of the Inquisition’s mages recognized him by the alias he’d been using during the war, not as the Champion of Kirkwall, and he’d been happy to leave it like that.

Not that his presence was a secret, exactly. After some deliberation, the Inquisition’s ambassador had determined that since Hawke was acting as liaison for the Grey Wardens, a degree of diplomatic immunity could be extended to him as well—meaning that the Inquisition wouldn’t have to treat him as a wanted fugitive, without actually having to commit themselves to an official pardon, either.

Still, it was easier for everyone involved if he didn’t draw a lot of attention to himself.

And that had been fine when he was spending most of his time out in the field. But until the upcoming ball at the Winter Palace was over with, there was little left for Hawke and Stroud to do but wait.

Varric had handed a letter to him that afternoon, forwarded by Carver to obscure Anders’ location. It was still more of a risk than he thought Anders should be taking, writing at all. It was different when Hawke wrote him, letting him know what was going on with the false Calling; that had been urgent.

Still, it had been a relief to hear back from him, to know he was still okay.

While Hawke had been gone, Anders had managed to find survivors of the annulment at Dairsmuid, and he’d started taking down their accounts, intending to make sure the next Divine was confronted with them. Hawke had smiled fondly as he read. Anders never ceased to amaze him.

Of course, this was assuming there _was_ a next Divine. But if the Chantry survived this, then it was looking increasingly likely that their next leader would have to be one of the Inquisition’s supporters, with the way their influence was spreading—and that meant Hawke was perfectly positioned to keep an eye on the potential candidates and see what the rebellion would have to deal with next, as Anders’ letter had reminded him. Not that he really needed reminding.

Which was why he was taking his evening meal with Stroud on the ground floor of the tavern tonight, listening to the flow of conversation in the crowded room, instead of on the relatively private upper floor where he usually met Sigrid and her friend, that boy whose name he kept forgetting.

But the word that caught his ears now was _Champion_.

Orlesian accents. A small group at a table across the way, two who still had their masks on while they waited for drinks, and a bare-faced man looking back and forth between them and Hawke with brows furrowed, comparing what he was hearing to what he was seeing.

And what he was seeing was a man who’d been living out of tents and ruins for the past year of war, with a few more grey hairs than he used to have. Premature, he thought. Maybe not. Hawke supposed he made quite a picture—but not exactly the kind of picture on the cover of Varric’s book.

He used to get the same kind of skeptical, evaluating look from some of the nobles at parties he’d attended on Champion business. Maybe it was the _jumped-up dog lord_ thing, or maybe it was the apostate thing, or maybe anyone who’d killed the Arishok would have gotten the same reaction. They compared legend to reality, came up lacking, and saw their chance to make a name for themselves. The type of noble who liked to pass the time by challenging each other to duels.

The same type who might join a group like the Inquisition because they had something to prove.

“I know you,” the Orlesian man said when he approached Hawke and Stroud’s table, in a voice meant to carry. “Champion of Kirkwall.”

The tavern was loud and busy, but Hawke noted a few people’s eyes turning their way, the room getting a little bit quieter.

The challenge to a duel, when it came, was about what he’d expected. The shame he’d brought to his title, the abandonment of the people he was meant to protect, the abandonment of his honor, and so on. How could this be the same man who’d dueled the Arishok in single combat?

Hawke leaned forward. “Fine. You want to see how I defeated the Arishok?”

The man’s sneer stretched into a satisfied smile, hearing his challenge accepted. And then Hawke _reached_ , and the man’s eyes rolled up as he abruptly collapsed to the floor. The room was suddenly silent.

Until the man started snoring.

There was a roar of laughter from the Tal-Vashoth mercenary on the other side of the tavern, followed by some more cautious laughter around the room. People relaxed. And Hawke leaned back in his chair and resumed his meal.

As one of the masked Orlesians tried to rouse her friend from Hawke’s sleep spell, she said in an angry undertone, “There was no honor in that.”

Which was true enough, he supposed. There was nothing particularly honorable about it. But then, his ‘duel’ with the Arishok had been won by wrapping him in force magic until he couldn't move and then lighting him on fire he couldn't run from, and there had been nothing particularly honorable about that, either.

And for all the Arishok's high talk, he hadn't looked particularly honorable when he'd murdered the viscount.

Sometimes, Hawke really hated Varric’s book. Duels of honor, Andraste's sake...

Not everyone had laughed. The mages in the room hadn’t; a sleep spell was just a hair’s breadth away from a horror spell, the same basic principle of reaching into a person’s mind and pulling it apart just that little bit. And magic used in petty arguments wasn’t exactly helping any cause.

Still, it had felt good.

Hawke felt Stroud’s eyes on him and met his gaze, raised an eyebrow. Stroud shrugged and returned to his own dinner.

* * *

Hawke had seen First Enchanter Vivienne around the mages’ tower a few times over the past week. The upper levels were still under construction, but the tower was looking more complete every day.

He’d met her briefly back when he and Anders had still been trying to convince the Circles to rise up; an Orlesian party with a contingent from the Circle as guests. He hadn’t thought she remembered him. He’d been doing his level best _not_ to be memorable; he’d spoken to her only briefly in passing, and he’d been going by a fake name at the time. Up until now, when he’d seen her coming and going from the tower, she’d glanced right past him.

But tonight, she fell into step at his side.

“Champion, isn’t it?” she greeted him. “Or was it Dane? What are you going by these days, my dear?”

Dane had been one of his longer-lasting aliases. It was a common name among Fereldan men his age, born after the rebellion when the Hero of River Dane made his mark.

More importantly, it was the name of his dog, which meant Hawke would actually notice when someone called it out.

He shrugged. “We all have our reasons for using different names, Madame de Fer.”

Her polite smile widened at the way he stressed her own nickname. “And yours are plain.” From her amused look, he rather suspected the names she’d prefer to call him weren’t fit for polite company. “Hiding up here in the ramparts all this time, really... Of course, I can see why you’d prefer to be overlooked. And I haven’t seen your partner here yet—you must forgive me, I can’t seem to recall his name. With the Orlesian mask and the Fereldan accent?”

“Philip,” he supplied, straight-faced, though he had no doubt she knew exactly who ‘Philip’ was. Anders had used an Orlesian alias for a while, to go with the mask. “You won’t see him.”

“Pity,” she said, with a smile that suggested quite the opposite. “I’ve heard some interesting rumors about a Philip—” She raised one shoulder, dismissing the point. “And interesting rumors about one of Fiona’s rebels using magic in a tavern brawl.”

“Fiona’s—?” He was caught off guard by that. And there’d been no actual brawling involved, but that twist was less surprising. “People think I’m with Fiona’s mages?”

He and Anders had gone to a great deal of trouble to avoid linking their names with Fiona’s, even while they’d done what they could to support her push for the vote for independence. The revolution needed a public face, and he and Anders couldn’t be associated with that; they needed her to condemn what had happened in Kirkwall. The Kirkwall chantry had to be seen as the actions of one mage acting alone.

Yet now the Champion started helping the Inquisition not long after they’d recruited Fiona’s rebels. He hadn’t been thinking about that.

“Aren’t you?” Vivienne asked, and Hawke wondered if his frustration had shown on his face, with the way she was watching him. “My dear, whatever you think you’ve been doing, you’re with the Inquisition now. None of us have the luxury of pretending our actions reflect only on ourselves. You’re Fiona’s, of course. Or mine.” And her raised eyebrows said eloquently what she thought of that idea. “And whatever else you are, you’re the Inquisitor’s guest.”

And one mage was much like another, as far as most of the world was concerned; just like how one mage’s independent actions at a chantry would be blamed on every mage in the city. Hawke grimaced, shaking his head. He didn’t really need to be reminded of that.

“I’m surprised to hear you object,” he said. “You’ve got quite the reputation yourself.” There were plenty of stories about Madame de Fer and how her spells had added a bit of spice to the Game. He waved one hand to illustrate, vaguely sketching the outline of a frost spell. “Wouldn’t think _you’d_ be afraid of how people might react to a bit of magic.”

Admittedly, he knew from experience just how unreliable rumor could be; but seeing her in the flesh, he had no trouble believing it. She wore people’s fear of mages like armor.

“Did I say I object?” She gave a quiet laugh in the back of her throat. “They react exactly as I intend, of course. Acting without thought for consequences—well. That’s the sort of thing that starts unnecessary wars, isn’t it?”

She raised her eyebrows as if to ask what reaction _he’d_ intended.

There it was, the sort of accusation he’d been expecting from the start. And he’d already risen to the bait once today.

Still—

“I don’t know about _unnecessary_ ,” he said mildly. “First time in my life I haven’t had to worry about getting locked up in a Circle.”

“And I’m sure your freedom is a great comfort for all.”

Her expression was carefully blank. And it was a familiar debate. And he felt very tired. “What do you want me to say?”

“My dear, what could you say?” Vivienne shook her head, her smile back in place. “No, I wanted to see what has our Inquisitor’s ear. And now I have.”

She watched him with the same measuring look that the would-be duelist had earlier, and Hawke had the feeling he was a lot less prepared for this particular duel.


End file.
